Just about midday a big car stole down the hill, glided past and drew up a hundred yards beyond. Its three occupants descended as if to stretch their legs, and sauntered towards me.
Two of the men I had seen before from the window of the Galloway inn—one lean, sharp, and dark, the other comfortable and smiling. The third had the look of a countryman—a vet, perhaps, or a small farmer. He was dressed in ill-cut knickerbockers, and the eye in his head was as bright and wary as a hen’s.
“Morning,” said the last. “That’s a fine easy job o’ yours.”
I had not looked up on their approach, and now, when accosted, I slowly and painfully straightened my back, after the manner of roadmen; spat vigorously, after the manner of the low Scot; and regarded them steadily before replying. I confronted three pairs of eyes that missed nothing.
“There’s waur jobs and there’s better,” I said sententiously. “I wad rather hae yours, sittin’ a’ day on your hinderlands on thae cushions. It’s you and your muckle cawrs that wreck my roads! If we a’ had oor richts, ye sud be made to mend what ye break.”
The bright-eyed man was looking at the newspaper lying beside Turnbull’s bundle.
“I see you get your papers in good time,” he said.
I glanced at it casually. “Aye, in gude time. Seein’ that that paper cam’ out last Setterday I’m just sax days late.”
He picked it up, glanced at the superscription, and laid it down again. One of the others had been looking at my boots, and a word in German called the speaker’s attention to them.
“You’ve a fine taste in boots,” he said. “These were never made by a country shoemaker.”